


Don't Fight Shy of Adventure; I'd Sooner You Lived Dangerously

by libraryv



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Duelling, Gen, Intrigue, Swordfighting, Whump, d'Artagnan needs to prove himself, stitching up d'Art
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-17
Updated: 2019-09-18
Packaged: 2020-05-13 11:34:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19250383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/libraryv/pseuds/libraryv
Summary: The Musketeers have taken d'Artagnan on a important mission, but his eagerness to prove himself may cause trouble...





	1. This Feeling

_This._

The sound of thundering hooves, the slide of the heavy muscles of his horse’s shoulders flexing in rhythm beneath his legs.

_This right here._

The wind whipping his wet hair blissfully off his forehead, drying his open mouth, chapping his lips.

_This is what he was in search of._

The reins gripped tightly in his right hand, his heartbeat a dangerous staccato, drumming into his fingers.

_This feeling, is why he desperately wanted to be a Musketeer._

d’Artagnan urged Theon faster, sparing a glance over his shoulder for jarring impressions of the men racing along with him: an implacable blue gaze, the wide brim of a hat, a studded leather collar.  
The forest path ahead of them widened; they broke out onto a grassy plain, the heavens opening up above them. No longer protected by the canopy of green, the rain was greedy, relentless, beating down on d’Artagnan and saturating him within seconds. 

He kept the pace; the others with him. Nowhere to go but forward. No other task but the letter. 

There was a steady roaring sound in his ears, which he had attributed to being suddenly out in the open fields, but he quickly realized it was growing more focused, and stronger. He slowed his horse, sensed the others doing the same, and as the ground started sloping gently upwards, came to the realization just as he heard Aramis voice it behind him:

“La Riviere d’Or.”

A few more careful, slippery paces, and as they crested the bank of the hill, they saw it, the brown water rushing past. The four men lined up in a row and watched as the ferocious water carried a large branch, tumbled it violently downstream and tossed it against a rock in the middle. The large crack and ensuing snap of the wood felt, to d’Artagnan, like it echoed in his leg.

“Well,” he heard Porthos say, above the frothing dull roar, “it’s wide.”

“Too wide,” added Aramis.

“Too deep?” Porthos was beside d’Artagnan, and flashed him a grin.

“The real question,” and Athos’ voice was wry underneath the brim of his hat, “is whether we are taking too much time.”

He did not have to say more; they only had a few minutes’ lead, and it was one they were rapidly losing. They stared again at the angry river through the sheet of grey rain. D’Artagnan’s trousers were soaked; he could feel tiny rivulets of water running down into his boots. At least his jacket, threaded with wax, was keeping his upper body relatively dry. He turned to look at the others; drops of water chasing continuously down the brims of their hats. 

_The letter._

“The letter!” said d’Artagnan, eagerly. “I can keep it dry! My jacket!” 

He saw Athos and Aramis exchange a look and a brief nod, just before the unmistakeable sound of hoofbeats could be heard in the distance.

Porthos shifted in his seat.

“We took too much time.”

“They cannot fire their weapons, not in this weather,” said Athos, dismounting and unbuttoning his collar. He walked quickly over to d’Artagnan, reached under his jacket, and pulled out an innocuous piece of paper with an ornate black seal.

He placed it in d’Artagnan’s outstretched hand. D’Artagnan tucked it carefully away in his shirt pocket, pride humming in his veins. A streak of confidence tore through him, and he smiled as he joked,

“And we know they cannot aim.”

This earned him a rumbling chuckle from Porthos, and a warning frown from Athos, whose hand had gone to the hilt of his scabbard.

“They can fight.”

Aramis jumped down. 

“We are outnumbered. They are ten at least.”

Porthos landed on the ground as well, but d’Artagnan was studying the river. It wasn’t too deep, surely? If he could get across, then Athos, Aramis and Porthos could follow, and they could regain their lead. 

The letter, dry against his skin, igniting his confidence. He must prove himself worthy of a Musketeer’s daring. 

A flick of his wrist and the reins twitched; Theon's hooves scrambling a little as he took mincing steps down the bank towards the racing, frothing water. The bank was muddy, and now that he was closer, the water looked fast. And deep.

_This._

He combed his wet hair out of his eyes once more, angling himself slightly left.

 _This right here._  
His knees tightened on Theon’s flanks.

His father’s words echoed in his memory.

_“I’d sooner you lived dangerously.”_

_This feeling is why he desperately wanted to be a Musketeer._

A last deep breath, and d’Artagnan moved forward into the river, barely hearing Athos shout his name behind him.


	2. The River

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> d'Artagnan makes a gamble and hopes that it pays off.

“D’Artagnan!”

He could hear the commanding note to his name this time, the warning tone clear even above the cacophony of the rapid river. Athos had a unique gift for injecting meaning into a single word; he was especially fluent in d’Artagnan’s name.

D’Artagnan could feel Theon’s hooves scrambling a tiny bit for purchase on the silt of the river floor. He had advanced far enough that the water was grabbing at his ankles, pulling with surprising force. He was too far for second thoughts; it was all the way or nothing. 

Keeping his balance loose and easy atop Theon’s shifting muscle, he turned his head just enough over his shoulder to see Athos’ form, radiating exasperation on the bank above him.

“I can do this – getting across will buy us time!” D’Artagnan shouted, one hand reaching forward and calming Theon’s nervous toss of his head. “There’s too many of them! Thierry must not get the letter – it must get to Chambord!”

He knew the best way to reason with his mentor: the mission. 

Athos gave a resigned shake of his head, then a short, rueful nod. 

D’Artagnan turned back; no time to waste. 

A few more tentative, unsteady paces, and then-

He felt, immediately, when the riverbed gave way; he had been ready, but it was still shocking, the plunge into the demanding sweep of water that grabbed at his waist, the cold so thorough it stole his breath.

_Keep going._

Deeper still, and the view of the opposite bank in front of him was moving alarmingly to the side, the pull more than he had anticipated. The water felt more like pummeling fists than liquid. He thought of the letter, still safe above his beating heart. 

He grit his teeth, every muscle screaming to continue, to remain upright, his hands a death grip on the reins, the pain in his arms protesting as he fought to keep his form against the powerful churning around his torso.

A drop in his stomach as he felt Theon’s loss of control and sudden weightlessness; the river triumphant-

_No!_

He threw his whole self forward, opposite to the current, _willing_ them across, and suddenly, he felt the world re-arrange itself solidly beneath him once more, felt the reassuring ground beneath Theon’s hooves, unevenly and rapidly gaining momentum towards the opposite bank. A last scramble, water sluicing away from them, and they were up, up onto the grass, away from the precarious river.

It was not until he was safe on the embankment that he dared turn Theon around, exhilarated. He knew Athos would act quickly, and sure enough, the other three men were mounted again and already picking their way in a line down into the water.

D’Artagnan held his breath as he watched them splash into the river, making their treacherous journey across. Had it been this deep before? He bit back panic as Athos’ steady balance was thrown, only slightly, the tumbling deep grabbing at his chest, then all of a sudden surging forward again, his horse climbing up.

He pulled up alongside d’Artagnan, saying nothing, but giving him a slight raise of the eyebrows as Aramis and Porthos joined them.

The men stared at each other, breathless and relieved, but soaked through from the waist down. D’Artagnan could feel the paper of the letter, tucked safely high-up against his skin.

Aramis’ smile was wide.

“And here we thought we couldn’t get any wetter.”

“We certainly aren’t gettin’ any drier,” mumbled Porthos.

“Either way, D’Artagnan has given us valuable seconds that would be a shame to waste,” came the rejoinder from Athos as he turned his own stallion forward, poised to move.

He was right: the men following them had caught up, the long noses of their horses already appearing at the top of the hill in the distance. More than their original guess of about ten; d’Artagnan counted fourteen.

“Why is it,” said Aramis, readjusting his hat with dignity, “that we never seem to face four on four?”

D’Artagnan grinned at him, but it was Athos who surprised them with his graceful shrug and quiet, cutting jest.

“Well. Their numbers make them think they have a chance.”

Porthos laughed, but it died off quickly as three more men appeared. 

“Seventeen.” Athos again, with his ability to fit an entire conversation into one word. 

Aramis sighed, squinting into the distance.

“We cannot ride them out, not all the way to Chambord.”

“If we stop and fight, I don’t love our chances,” said Porthos, squeezing a healthy amount of water from his gloves before looking up and smiling at d’Artagnan.  
“Then again, there’s four of us now.”

A warmth spread in d’Artagnan’s cold chest at Porthos’ words, and he basked in the glow for a few moments before Athos said,

“If we ride now, some will follow immediately, and we can stop and take on the first of them. There is a chance if they break ranks.”

He looked at them each in turn, blue eyes silently asking their opinion. 

There was nothing more to be said, soaking and shivering as they all were, forward was the only option. 

They turned as one, breaking into a canter once more, but not before d’Artagnan took one last look at the line of men behind them.

He saw Thierry raise his hand, pointing, the message clear through the downpour and the mist:

_We’re coming for you._


	3. A Good Idea (or a Bad One)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's one thing after another with d'Artagnan: he is determined to draw Thierry away and be the hero, winning the approval of his Musketeer brothers.

They rode hard along the grassy plain, cold, tired and wet. At least the onslaught of rain had stopped. None of them spoke: it was taking all of their collected effort to maintain their precarious lead. They must keep driving forward, until the inevitable moment where they would split up in the hope of dividing Thierry and his men. A smaller, controlled fight was better than an all out melee. D’Artagnan looked over at Athos beside him, aristocratic profile concentrated dead ahead, determination vibrating off his lean form.

Theon was tiring; his flanks foaming with sweat. The steady shifting of solid muscle beneath him was slowing, freezing up, and it was becoming more of an effort for d’Artagnan to stay loose in his saddle. He felt badly: they had been riding at a punishing pace all morning, then d’Artagnan had thrown them both through a river crossing, and now they were racing along again.

It was still miles until Chambord.

They heard a collective thundering behind them, and Porthos’ shout.

“Thierry!”

A wordless agreement: he and Athos veered left while Aramis and Porthos broke off to the right, Porthos throwing them a last encouraging grin over his shoulder.

He heard the storming of hooves behind him lessen as they sped along, and knew that their plan was working, but it also relied on the hope that not all of Thierry’s men had made the river crossing at the same time.

He wished fervently that it would only be a few men; they could deal easily with only a few. He risked a glance behind him. Only five were in pursuit, and no sign of Thierry himself. Did that mean he went after Aramis and Porthos? Still at the river?

Athos slowed beside him, and d’Artagnan pressed his thighs into Theon’s sides, feeling the horse relax gratefully. They trotted to a stop, and Athos threw him a quick, assessing look.

“Ready?”

D’Artagnan nodded, and they both dismounted, drawing their swords as the group of men halted in front of them.

He drew in a breath, and he felt Athos standing calmly at his side. Looking over, blue eyes met his with reassurance; then the world tilted and funneled into nothing but the men heading towards them.

There was no preamble, no discussion; both sides knew exactly what they were here for. They clashed together, punches thrown and blades flashing. It was a mess; there was no reflecting on style or form or whatever else had been drilled into him. There was only the muscle memory of his training; the thrust of his blade meeting flesh, the physical strength needed to make it count, the feeling of his sword forcing into a live body and the grotesque wrench away again. No matter how many times he was forced to choose between himself or the other man, d’Artagnan never liked to dwell too hard on what sort of judgement he was dealing out with the fatal stroke of his blade.

He stepped back as another man fell forward. Athos, in typical fashion, had taken on two men at once, and with a quick, brutal finality, dispatched one to join the rest on the ground. D’Artagnan’s own sword found another victim. He exchanged a look with Athos, both of them breathing hard.

In the distance, more riders could be seen storming towards them, Thierry’s wide black hat visible among them. He could just make out Porthos and Aramis behind the group; they must have have been tricked, were now doubling back.

D'Artagnan felt, for the first time that afternoon, a nagging particle of doubt.

Thierry would keep coming at them, man after man, until he had the letter. Who knows how many were still following them from the river?

Stopping Thierry himself: that was the key.

This was followed by another realization as Thierry and his men drew up, stepping down from their mounts and heading towards them. Porthos and Aramis were seconds away. 

_They still think Athos has the letter._

An idea came to him; he made a split-second decision and backed up towards Theon, swinging himself up into the saddle and reaching into his shirt.

“Thierry!” he held the letter out, grinning as every face in the vicinity swung towards him, the men advancing towards Athos stopping as Thierry held up a hand.

He caught a glimpse of Athos’ realization, saw the elegant brows draw together over a deterring glare. It was too late, d’Artagnan’s mind was made up.

“I believe this is what you’re looking for?” d’Artagnan feigned a casual air he didn’t quite feel; his pulse was racing punishingly fast. Thierry’s eyes were greedily on the paper.

_Got you._

D’Artagnan began turning Theon around, still smiling, and gave a careless shrug.

“Come get it, then.”

He had once last glimpse of Athos’ furious expression before he flicked the reins smartly and took off.

He heard Thierry shout,

“He’s mine!” and knew his plan was working, knew if he could stop Thierry he could stop the flood of men and save the mission; determination flying high in his blood.

He pressed Theon on, heart racing, until stopping in front of a small wooded area. He jumped down from the saddle, pacing, watching as Thierry came flying up.

Thierry dismounted, and d’Artagnan experienced a swooping sensation in his stomach. His own experience in dueling was limited mostly to training. He had faced other Musketeers, who were not enough of a challenge, or Athos, who was too much of one.

He didn’t know how Athos did it, how he maintained that unshakeable coolness and control: as Thierry advanced, d’Artagnan definitely felt a little sick. His hands were clammy on the hilt of his sword, and as he looked into the other man’s mocking face, he had a moment’s anxious surety that this is how he would die.

_Well. I’ll go down fighting, anyway._

The thought gave him back a bit of his fire, and grounded him. He _could_ fight, and fight well. He knew that much.

The men circled each other. Thierry sneered.

“So this is who the Musketeers have guarding that letter. Some farm boy.” Thierry smiled, at ease. He drew out his sword, and the reality of what was about to happen sent a much-needed release of adrenaline through d’Artagnan’s system. He breathed it in gratefully, trying to focus.

Let Thierry think he was an inexperienced youth. D’Artagnan was used to having people underestimate him; it worked to his advantage.

“I’ve heard that their celebrated swordsman took you under his wing.”

D’Artagnan drew his blade, his eyes on Thierry’s, every passing second bringing more confidence. Thierry tilted his head, and d’Artagnan experienced a thrill of foreboding, of destiny, as he spoke his taunt out loud,

“What are you waiting for, Thierry? I dare you to see exactly how much he has taught me.”

And then Thierry moved, his blade singing through the air, and the duel for the letter began.


	4. Young Pup

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> d'Artagnan fights Thierry in a duel; his mastery over his temper is tested.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for stitches of a wound without anesthetic, which might not be everybody's thing! Not too graphic, but it's there. (Fun fact: I've had stitches with and without numbing, and I would bet anyone who's received the latter still remembers the experience _very_ clearly.)  
> :D

At first, he was operating on blind reaction. Thierry was fast, _too_ fast, and it was all d’Artagnan could do to keep up, his muscles screaming in protest as he threw himself too hard into defensive moves. A few moments in, and he was panicking.

He felt uneven, desperate, and the speed was such that he was extremely grateful, on some vague level of awareness, for Athos’ merciless training style: it was saving his life right now.

Thierry was teasing him, but d’Artagnan didn’t hear it; his own focus was spent blocking a particularly lethal attempt. The action was so jarring he felt it resonate in his jaw; he realized he was gritting his teeth. He looked up from their crossed blades into Thierry’s eyes, glinting with malicious intent, and a delicious rush of adrenaline surged through him. 

“Come on, Thierry,” he grinned. “Do you want this letter or not?”

Thierry cursed and attacked: d’Artagnan was even quicker off the mark and found, with a thrill, that he had been able to predict the move and block it. He began to relax; action had always been his saving grace. Movement always forced his brain to focus, and now that he was in the thick of it, he found his memory calling up Athos’ instructions with increasing clarity.

_Use your energy._

D’Artagnan started to throw his weight more carefully, creating momentum and reveling in Thierry’s adjustment. Thierry was forced to slow, and d’Artagnan couldn’t stop himself from smiling as he forced his attack on the other man; his movements sharper and faster. For the first time, Thierry’s menacing grin slipped off his face.

“So you are not untalented,” Thierry gasped, and they circled again, panting. “But you know what they say - that you are like the Musketeers’ pet, their little dog-”

The words hit hard, poking a sore spot and shaking his confidence.

_Don’t rise to it._

“-nothing but a lost puppy, looking for scraps from the big men-“

D’Artagnan lunged as hatred burned through him, his attack skewing wild, and he turned, knowing as he did so that he shouldn’t have exposed his side-

It surprised him: taking a hit had always been hypothetical.

It wasn’t a stab, he had moved fast enough to avoid that, but the blade carving deeply along his skin was still shocking in its depth. It made him gasp, and, God, it _hurt_ , at once, everywhere. He took a few paces back; his arms suddenly barely able to follow the commands his brain was desperately sending. His sword immediately felt as if it weighed too much, and he couldn’t help it, his blocking became slow, and weak.

Thierry stopped for a quick moment, false concern warring with certainty of a win chasing across his features.

“Oh dear, getting tired, young pup?”

D’Artagnan was breathing hard, trying to master his hot frustration at his own mistake and his emotional reaction to Thierry’s insults. He could feel a horrible, pulsing wetness at his side; there was a strange throb towards it with each breath that he took. 

He was not done yet: he had not spent the past few months training with three of the best Musketeers for nothing. A single remembered command came through; ironically, one which he had the most trouble with.

_Be patient and watch._

He blinked away spots in his vision, just in time to see Thierry’s feet move right, and thrust. D’Artagnan saw it coming and whirled the opposite direction, bringing his own blade down and forward onto the other man’s, surprising not only Thierry, but himself.

A smile broke out onto his face.

“Not that tired, Thierry.”

He parried, and now his adrenaline was helping him, doing him a favour; the pain began to feel distant. A problem for later.

He was on the counterattack now, gaining both ground and momentum and moving as fast as he could. Thierry’s expression betrayed worry, and d’Artagnan felt a flash of triumph.

“As you said,” his blade flashed quickly against Thierry’s, and he saw his opening.

“I am young,” he feinted to the left, and Thierry took the bait, lunging. D’Artagnan sliced forward, with all he was worth, to the right, and felt the tip of his sword meet the blunt resistance of clothing as Thierry froze, beaten.

“So I do not tire as easily as you.” D’Artagnan pushed forward with a burst of victorious energy, his blade sinking into Thierry’s body.

Thierry gave a wet-sounding gurgle and went to his knees, his sword falling from his hands.

D’Artagnan stood over him, his sword held out, his tired muscles complaining with the effort, watching as Thierry rolled over into the dirt, silent and still.

Relief. It was complete and overwhelming, and he was happily drowning in the flood of it as he stumbled backwards, finding Theon’s saddle and holding himself upright against his horse’s warm flanks. 

He was alive, he won, and he had the letter. His pulse was slowing, but it felt as if his heart was located in the side of his body; every beat of it was a deep pull in his wound. He closed his eyes, and thought he heard hoof beats.

He opened them again in time to see Athos’ muddy boots. He wondered, briefly, when he had decided to sit down on the wet ground, which was beautifully cool and soft. Dazedly, he felt a tugging at his jacket, heard Athos saying his name, and he let his weight be braced by Athos’ strength as the jacket came off, let his head fall forward. Athos had his arm around his back, and he gratefully let his upper body be supported. He felt incredibly, oddly, relaxed, the blood leaving his body in graceful, weighted drags in time with his breathing.

He watched, dazedly, as Aramis and Porthos swung down from their horses; Aramis looking at Thierry's form and horse still standing, riderless.

“Thierry’s men were on our tail, then they doubled back and went after you two. Used our own strategy against us.”

Athos had no reply, except to say, shortly, “d’Artagnan is injured.”

Then Ararmis was beside him, with his leather kit and warm smile, lifting d’Artagnan’s shirt.

“Let me see.”

D’Artagnan looked down, curious, and was surprised to see how much of his white shirt had become dark red as it came peeling away from his skin. The wound gaped wider than he would have guessed, deeper too, the pink striated muscle just barely visible. Not too bad, he thought vaguely. Only six or seven inches long.

He saw Porthos turn over Thierry’s lifeless body with a boot, and felt another distant flash of satisfaction.

Aramis brought his hands, wet and crimson, away from d’Artagnan’s side, which felt strangely heavy. There was a feeling of pressure as Aramis pressed a cloth to the site.

“Looks like he took a good bite out of you.”

Tremors had started to take over his body, and d’Artagnan found he could not stop. He clenched his teeth against them, struggling for control.

“I took a bigger one out of him.”

He raised his eyes, body shaking, to Athos.

“I thought I could draw him away and give you a chance.”

“It is clear,” said Athos, voice low and made of tightly controlled fury, “that you were not thinking, at all!”

D’Artagnan’s heart sank.

“What,” Athos continued, “if every single last man had followed you? What then?”

“Athos, the lad’s done us a favour, and it _was_ brave.” Aramis winked at him.

Athos shook his head, his eyes taking in d’Artagnan’s side, his uncontrollable shaking.

“It was reckless. You could have been killed, taking off like that and drawing Thierry alone.”

“An’ who does that remind me of?” said Porthos, looking sarcastically at Athos, who sighed and closed his eyes. He opened them again, and fixed d’Artagnan with an affectionate glare.

D’Artagnan tried for a grin as Aramis gently took away the pressure of the cloth.

“I knew I could beat him.”

Aramis chuckled at his side, holding up the needle and thread d’Artagnan had known were coming. The needle glinted, and d’Artagnan thought he would almost prefer to keep bleeding out into the grass. Maybe if he reminded them about the mission, he could get back onto Theon and get stitched up later.

“But - we must get the letter to Chambord?”

Athos’ raised d’Artagnan’s arm up and across his own shoulders, taking all the younger man's weight, causing d'Artagnan to let out a sharp gasp of pain. Athos' expression was sympathetic as he spoke softly to d'Artagnan. 

“We must get _you_ to Chambord.”

D’Artagnan saw that the blue eyes had softened, and the corner of the mouth was pulled up in amusement.

“That will not happen until you let Aramis attend to your side. And you must try to stop shaking."

Porthos reached a bottle down, and d’Artagnan took a swig, the alcohol burning down his throat and settling in the pit of his stomach, the warmth spreading through him.

D’Artagnan gave a determined nod, and he looked down. The blood had slowed to an oozing trickle, and Aramis’ brown eyes met his.

“You are going to watch?”

D’Artagnan nodded. “It will be worse for me not to see.”

Aramis looked up, exchanging an amused glance with Porthos and Athos before smiling.

“I forget how spirited our young soldier is.“ 

D’Artagnan watched as the hooked needle pierced the skin; still could not help his flinch and yelp. The cold metal of the needle left a cruel, burning trail of pain through the dull throbbing; he fisted his fingers into the grass.

“God, it’s worse than getting sliced in the first place!” gasped d’Artagnan, managing a half-joke as he felt the bizarre sensation of thread sliding inside his body, the strange and painful tug on the raw edges of the wound being drawn together.

He sucked in a breath. “At least – at least that was quicker than this!”

He twisted one eye shut and wrinkled his nose, hissing and giving a jerk of his head at another awful pull. It was keeping him alert, though; it was putting up a fight against the drowsy feeling stealing over him.

“I lost control of my temper,” he said, focusing on Athos, needing distraction from the relentless loop of pain.

Porthos laughed, his face kind.

“Not the first time that’s happened.”

“Nor the last,” finished Athos sardonically, but his warm arm around d’Artagnan’s body was comforting.

D’Artagnan was not finding the agony of Aramis’ continued pulls of the needle any easier. He let out a breath of pain. 

“He said - I let it get to me – he said I was nothing but the Musketeers’ puppy.”

He saw Athos and Aramis both turn their heads up to Porthos, and the three men shared a wordless conversation.

"How long does this – augh! - how long does this take?" He ground his teeth. 

Aramis looked at him, sympathetic. "Not too much longer. It is not the worst I have seen."

He turned his head and muttered under his breath to Athos and Porthos.

"It's not the best I've seen, either. I am worried about the blood he's lost, and I do not like that he has been sitting out here, bleeding and shivering for God knows how long. He is very warm, warmer than I would like."

D’Artagnan was filled with the need to make something clear; his brain felt sluggish and dull.

“I beat him, though, and the letter is safe. I beat him.”

D’Artagnan’s senses were failing him alarmingly, but not so much that he was unable to see the small smile tug at the corners of Athos’ mouth as he said, 

“I would have expected nothing less.”

He looked at d’Artagnan, and there was a definite note of pride in his voice.

“And I am not at all surprised that you did.”

D’Artagnan closed his eyes, the warmth of his brother’s words washing over him, and found that he was unable to open them again; the pull of the dark too strong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I decided to write this fic as d'Art centered I also made the decision that it would take place fairly early on in his Musketeer life. He is skilled, but duels are still kinda a new thing for him. :)


	5. Losing the Edge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> d'Artagnan's injury and the events of the mission are getting to him, but he has one last leg of the journey to complete.

D’Artagnan came to with reluctance. The blackness had been deep and still, but this rocky assault on his senses was extremely unpleasant. Another layer complicated his awareness: his side became a glaring beacon of pain, the wound pulling and throbbing with horrible jolts that he felt down to the base of his spine. He became suddenly conscious that he was cushioned upright, his back against something – Athos’s chest - and the realization that he was not lying down had him sway dangerously in the saddle. Athos’ arms came up, steadying him, and he heard the quiet, refined accent in his ear:

“About half an hour’s ride left.”

D’Artagnan blinked, failing to make out much. The only sounds were the snorts of the horses and the heavy breaths of his brothers; ghostly impressions coming from the shadows that were comforting instead of frightening. Night out here was different from night in Paris, and he was glad of it; he was no stranger to the countryside’s blanket of darkness. 

He shivered, despite the warmth of Athos and the horse. His discomfort was rising; the pain was climbing steadily, cruelly, and he could feel how disoriented he was. An abrupt flash from the afternoon invaded his blurry mind.

“The letter!” he whispered, and heard Athos’ immediate reply.

“I have it.”

D’Artagnan could barely register relief at this news. His body was betraying him again, and despite his desire to close his eyes and give in to his weariness, the pain was unrelenting. His hands curled into fists. Instinctively, he took a deep breath, but the result was such a fierce, fiery shot of pain, his attempt ended in in a cascade of gasping and wincing.

He felt them come to a halt, and Aramis and Porthos’ figures came closer. D’Artagnan could not make out his expression in the gloom, but could hear the concern in Porthos’ voice as he spoke.

“Should we rest?”

D’Artagnan gave a resolute shake of his head that nobody saw.

“Do you feel feverish?” This from Aramis; D’Artagnan could sense the Musketeer shifting in his saddle, ready to dismount.

“No!” He tried for vehement surety; it ended up sounding a bit desperate. To his annoyance, he heard Porthos chuckle.

“Let’s stop. I’ll go an’ do a quick check behind us.”

D’Artagnan could feel that his shivering had returned, which was not helping matters. 

“He is radiating heat.” Athos, adding a final nail in the coffin of d’Artagnan’s attempts to dismiss his injury.

Porthos came back, and there was a note of danger in his tone:

“Company.” He grinned, his teeth flashing white in the dark.

“Barely a fight, though. Six of ‘em.”

At this, Athos slid silently from his horse, drawing his sword without a word.

Aramis smiled.

“That _is_ barely a fight.” He gave the powder in his muskets a quick check. “More what I call simple practice."

D’Artagnan dismounted as well, willing himself to do it as gracefully and competently as he could, biting against the accompanying roar of pain. He was glad of the cover of dark, but there was no hiding from Aramis’ sharp eyes.

Aramis turned to him.

“Watch that stitching! And I know what you’re thinking, and I disagree.”

D’Artagnan took a step forward, unable to hide the wince that came along with it. Sweat broke out afresh, and he wavered slightly where he stood.

“I’m not saying I should fight: I’m not stupid, you know.”

He watched his three brothers exchange smiles at this hot-tempered retort.

D’Artagnan continued.

“I’m a liability, I know that. But I have an idea.”

He turned to Athos, who was regarding him coolly.

“Give me the letter. I’m the best rider. I’ll get it to Chambord.”

The three men studied him, shaking and feverish and determinedly staying upright. Aramis spoke gently,

“I don’t like the idea of sending you galloping full tilt, alone, wounded and running hot, for who knows how long before we meet up with you.”

D’Artagnan opened his mouth to argue, but was forestalled by Athos, who had remained silent throughout the exchange.

“He can make it to Chambord.” The light-coloured eyes gleamed in d’Artagnan’s direction as he went on,

“He is right. He is the best seat of any of us.” He reached into his own jacket and handed the missive over.

D’Artagnan looked at him, unable to believe it had been that simple, his emotion at Athos’ confidence in him making him speechless.

Athos merely shook his head and gave him a slight smile. 

“We are wasting time.”

D’Artagnan needed no further convincing. He swung himself back up onto his horse with a grimace, and he spurred Theon off into the darkness. The sounds of his brothers drawing their swords faded quickly behind him, and he leaned forward in the saddle, ignoring the black tunnel of dizziness that threatened at the edges of his consciousness.

Sheer determination carried him along for a good ten minutes. Athos’ belief in him provided another mile. He was soaked with sweat; the leather of his baldric had rubbed a raw welt into his skin with the wet friction.

Then, stark reality insisted its way forward, and there was not enough strength of purpose in the world to dispel it.

Theon slowed to a trot, and d’Artagnan could not find the will to force them any faster.

His muscles, which had been thoroughly taxed, began to fail him. His thighs could no longer guide Theon; his arms were slack in his lap. His shoulders dropped, his torso slumped.

His side, which had been on fire only minutes ago, was curiously wooden and heavy. He could no longer feel it at all, which he would be more worried about if he had the mental energy to spare. His shivering stopped, and the sweaty strands of his hair had fallen into his face; the speed of the ride no longer kept it off his forehead.

At last, up ahead, the chateau’s skeleton rose up before him; construction was still underway. Torches were lit, casting firelight on the lone completed tower. 

Blissful detachment was descending on him; the world felt soft, its edges blurred. D’Artagnan was no longer capable of coherent thought, he was only aware of one thing: the need to deliver the letter.

Two Musketeers were standing at attention at either side of the main gate. Theon slowed without needing any command; his horse was as wrecked as he was. 

As they pulled up, the two guards recognized him. They let him through, and more Musketeers rushed forward, their voices swimming at him as he leaned forward. He saw Treville, and the captain was asking him something, the blue eyes astute, but d’Artagnan could make sense of nothing. He pulled the letter a final time from against his chest, felt Treville’s fingers close around the stained and damp paper, then slumped forward in his saddle, giving in to unconsciousness again with relief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I struggled with this - but I realized yesterday why - it's because I find it hard to write d'Art when he's not a peak energy! In other words: I struggle when he struggles. I laughed at that little parallel. :)


	6. Telling Silence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The four brothers are reunited at Chambord; but d'Artagnan's ride took a heavier toll than expected.

Treville watched as the gates opened; Athos, Porthos and Aramis stormed through in a burst of momentum, and the captain let himself breathe out. He marched across the courtyard, addressing Porthos, who had come forward with a large smile. 

“Cap’n.” He rolled his powerful shoulders. 

“Ran across the last of Thierry’s men.” 

He gave a single snort of laughter. 

“Took care of ‘em quick enough.”

Aramis watched as their horses were brought off towards the stables, and added smugly, 

“They weren’t happy to learn we didn’t have the letter.”

Treville gave them a firm nod. 

“Yes, the Duke has it safely in hand, I delivered it personally. He has already left for Paris with it and a guard of six men; the King will be reading it by tomorrow morning.”

He smiled at each of them in turn. “You have done well.”

Athos’ face was inscrutable as he let this comment pass, and turned to look at the tower.

“I suppose d’Artagnan is asleep. He must have arrived quite tired.”

Treville sighed; he had hoped to delay this conversation until the men had rested, but he should have known better.

“D'Artagnan was barely conscious. How on earth did he get that gaping wound in his side?”

Aramis went pale. 

“Gaping? Was it not stitched?”

Treville frowned. 

“What? No, I didn’t get a clear look. He didn’t say a word, he could barely raise his head to look at me. When he reached for the letter we could see the blood all over his shirt – he was covered in it. He stayed seated long enough to put the paper in my hand and then he was out.”

Treville was looking at them with a carefully calm expression.

“If Planchet had not been there to catch him he would have fallen straight from his horse. We took his jacket off and that’s when we saw that half his body had been sliced open. We couldn’t rouse him; he was burning up.”

Athos had turned, without a word, and began to head in the direction of the tower. 

Porthos’ dark eyes were wide with worry. 

“He was in a duel with Thierry. Our boy won, ‘o course, but Thierry did get a good chunk out of ‘im first.”

Aramis had begun pacing, and gestured wildly in front of him.

“I knew he should not have gone riding alone with that wound!” 

Treville held out a hand, trying for reassurance.

“Nicolas is with him. He is competent, he-“

Aramis scoffed at this, and turned to follow Athos. 

Porthos gave Treville a look, biting his lip.

“It’s not lookin’ good, is it?”

Treville gave a single shake of his head, and watched, heart heavy, as the large Musketeer looked sadly at the ground, nodded, and paced off after Aramis. 

 

XXXXX

 

Porthos gave a nod to Nicolas before walking into the room; Athos and Aramis were already sitting at the side of the bed where D’Artagnan lay, stripped to the waist, looking younger than ever. His skin glistened with sweat; his body tense even though he was not conscious. The wound in his side looked ugly: they had stitched him up again, but it was not so neat a job as Aramis would have done. Now that d’Artagnan was not sitting upright, peppering them with all with his stream of comments, the gash looked much more menacing in the silent and still body.

Porthos came forward and pulled another chair towards them, joining them as they all stared down at the young man’s feverish twitching. 

“It’s jus’ a fever, though, isn’ it?” whispered Porthos, not entirely sure how to put words to the energy of the room.

Aramis gusted a sigh, putting his head in his hands and leaning his elbows on his knees.

“Yes and no. A fever is not good, after the day we had. The ride _he_ had. And he has lost so much blood, I-“ 

He broke off, speaking to the floor. “He will be fine.”

Porthos nodded. 

“He pushed himself. Hard.”

They looked at d’Artagnan, whose head had tossed to one side restlessly. Each one of them had been in a situation where they had reached the limit of their own endurance and kept going; it was the nature of their role as Musketeers. They were used to it, expected it, lived and breathed it. 

Yet somehow, seeing their youngest, newest brother take on that weight, seeing him take on that expectation they all understood but never spoke of; it was making them realize that d’Artagnan shared the spirit of a Musketeer. With this mission, with his mettle and bravado and cheerful humour, he had become one of them. 

Athos had said nothing since he had entered the room, had not even taken off his hat, but sat holding d’Artagnan’s hand in his own. Neither Porthos or Aramis could see the expression on the stoic face hidden under the brim.

Worry was stifling; the lack of d’Artagnan’s enthusiastic conversation was the most noticeable thing in the room. 

Porthos said with a fond chuckle,

“It’s strange, isn’ it – not to have him talking to us, all excited about finishin’ the mission. Normally we can’t get ‘im to shut up.“

They all looked back down again at the young man, dark hair sticking to his neck; wet skin glimmering in the flickering candlelight. None of them said what they were all thinking: not having d'Artagnan alert and eager, talking around them, was leaving a bigger hole in their brotherhood than they had realized.

Aramis said gently,

“The best thing for him is to sleep. The fever is fighting off possible infection. We should get something to eat, and some rest-“

“I am not leaving. I can rest here.” Athos looked up at them, the bruising worry in his eyes contrasting with his calm face as he took off his hat and ran his fingers through his hair. 

Porthos stood as well. “We’ll bring some food for you.”

Aramis hesitated.

“Athos. Wouldn’t you like to-“

There was a last sharp look from underneath the brim of the hat as it settled back down on the dark hair, and Athos leaned back, putting his boots up on the other chair.

“I am not leaving.”

Aramis and Porthos exchanged a look; they knew Athos would not be moved. They headed out of the room to bring back some sustenance, their own weight of concern for d’Artagnan not lifting away from them as they left.


	7. Brother

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Musketeers react to d'Artagnan fighting off his fever and waking up.

It was not easy for Athos, Porthos, and Aramis to keep their vigil at d'Artagnan's bedside. The uncompleted chateaux was busy with construction, but there was nothing to do, no mission to complete. It was either go back to Paris or wait at d'Artagnan's side, and not one of the three men chose the former.

On the first afternoon, Treville came up to the quiet sick room and opened the door to see Athos, boots up on the edge of the bed and crossed at the ankles, asleep; his hat pulled down over his aristocratic nose. Beside him in the bed, d'Artagnan slept, his tan skin pale and dull, his face drawn even in repose. It struck the captain that he had never seen the young man so still; he was used to the youth moving, roving, pacing, laughing around the garrison. This stillness was claustrophobic to witness.

Treville backed silently towards the door, and had just reached it when he heard Athos' voice.

"He is unchanged."

Treville looked back and smiled; the hat had not moved, but he should have known better to guess that Athos would not be aware of anyone entering.

Athos pushed the hat up onto his forehead, still staring at d'Artagnan's sleeping form. 

"Aramis claims it is a waiting game; if that is the case, I shall win it."

Treville nodded. 

"Athos, I can relieve you here, do you not want to sleep in the-"

"I can sleep here." The hat came back down over the face; the conversation was over. 

Treville looked once more at d'Artagnan's sleeping form and decided to leave it. Athos was the most stubborn of them all, matched only by d'Artagnan. They had to hope that the iron will running through the young man's blood was enough to triumph. 

 

XXXXX

 

He was not alone. That was the first thing that d’Artagnan knew, without even opening his eyes. A steadiness, a watchfulness was present in the room.

Consciousness was returning in layers. He was…where was he? Pain in his side came rushing at him, and with it, scenes and impressions:

Water sweeping and sucking at his knees, holding onto Theon’s reins as they plunged through a river.

His surety, his need to prove himself worthy of the Musketeer brotherhood, driving him to pull the letter from his jacket.

Adrenaline coursing, excitement bursting, as his blade crossed with Thierry's in his first duel.

The complete, dull surprise, spiraling downward, that came with his first serious injury.

His brothers’ faces, their silent confidence, lighting him up.

Riding, alone, in the dark with nothing left to give; the small folded paper against the beating of his heart, pushing him onwards through the night.

 

XXXXX

 

He opened his eyes and saw blue ones staring back at him. Athos, with a face full of relief. d’Artagnan turned his head again in the other direction, grimacing at the feeling, and saw Porthos's warm brown ones on his other side. The burly Musketeer was grinning.

“Couldn’ stay down for long, could you?” Porthos put a large hand on the young man’s arm.

“And we were just startin’ to enjoy the peace and quiet.”

D’Artagnan swallowed and gave the ceiling a confident grin that sent pain shooting through his skull.

“Didn't I hear you say last night,” he said in a hoarse voice, “how much you missed me talking?”

Porthos burst out laughing, and even Athos gave him one of his rare, unfiltered smiles.

Aramis came into the room, laden with a tray and food. His eyes immediately fell on d’Artagnan, and he beamed, crossing over to the bed and feeling the younger man’s forehead.

“Your fever broke.”

d’Artagnan shifted grumpily at Aramis’ concern, catching Athos’ mild smirk.

“I know you do not enjoy being fussed over, but you must allow Aramis to vent his relief.”

Porthos stood.

“We're all relieved. Me most of all. Now I can convince Athos to leave your side long enough to finally take a bath."

d'Artagnan laughed, mostly at Athos' wry roll of the eyes. 

Porthos nodded.

"It's better 'an I can say, lad, to see you laugh again."

Aramis, satisfied that d'Artagnan's temperature was within a normal range, was busy looking at the stitches on the young man's torso.

“They are nowhere near as tidy as I would have done, but they are holding.” He looked up.

“As long as you don’t move around too much. And you must rest; give yourself a chance to recover.”

D’Artagnan scowled at that. He didn't relish the idea of being stuck in bed for days at a time. He closed his eyes against the demanding agony in his side, then they flew open again.

Anticipating him, Athos said calmly,

“The letter was sent to Paris with the Duke. It will have arrived, by now."

d'Artagnan let out a long, slow breath. They had done it. They had stolen the letter from under Thierry's nose, outrun his men, beat him, and sent the information to the King. They had _done_ it. 

D'Artagnan watched as Athos, Porthos and Aramis exchanged a swift look.

Aramis said casually, 

"You know, d'Artagnan, I couldn't believe it when you charged into that river. Just went in without a second thought. Had us all following you, getting soaked to the bone and freezing cold."

d'Artagnan had thought they might forgo the usual lecture on his recklessness; apparently not.

"An' you took on Thierry alone! Just decided to duel 'im! You beat 'im, but that was close, wasn't it?" chimed in Porthos. 

"Yes, and look at the wound you earned for your trouble," pointed out Aramis. 

"I think the wound did not tax you as much as the midnight ride that you insisted on," said Athos, with a raise of his eyebrows.

D'Artagnan, temper stoked, opened his mouth to defend himself before Aramis said,

"And every one of those things you did kept the mission going."

D'Artagnan shut his mouth.

"You saved tha' letter, time an' time again." 

Porthos was grinning at him.

Athos gave him a short, formal nod, but his expression was soft as he said,

"Mission accomplished, brother." 

d'Artagnan closed his eyes again, but this time it was to hide his flush of emotion at Athos' words. 

These men: he thought of them as family. They often called each other brother, and d'Artagnan felt that Athos in particular fulfilled that role, but they had never before used the word in connection with himself. He opened his eyes again to see the three of them smiling back: Aramis was beaming, one of Porthos' warm brown eyes squeezed into a wink, and then Athos was standing up and bending towards him, hand gripping his upper arm hard.

_Brother._

He cleared his throat and turned his face into his pillow, giving himself a second to fully appreciate the moment as he felt Athos' grip lessen. Then, he regained control, arranging his face into a cool, unruffled expression by the time Athos sat back down.

Aramis looked at him and laughed. 

"D'artagnan, never play cards: you look like you're about to burst into tears."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Never again am I writing d'Art as out for the count! Man as soon as he was out I hit the stumbling block of all stumbling blocks. It took so much to write my way through this: meanwhile, my head is bursting with stories where d'Art and Athos, Porthos and Aramis are healthily swashbuckling away, so I'll stick to that. 
> 
> In the meantime, my boy is almost back to his old self - how satisfying it was to have him wake up! :D


	8. A Reward Greater than Adventure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> d'Artagnan is impatient to recover; his first musketeer adventure comes to an end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've always wanted to write the Musketeers, and you have all made the experience more than I could have hoped. I learned quite a bit about my own style in the process; learned about my own strengths and weaknesses. I feel as if d'Art and I went on this introductory adventure together, and I owe the youngest musketeer a big thanks for keeping me company. Out of all the boys, he's my soul brother. :D
> 
> Thank you, so, so much, for reading along. Can I be cliched and say that writing is the best adventure of all, and so thankful for all the lovely comments and thoughts and kudos you fellow musketeers have generously given!
> 
> Also, a Musketeer literary hug goes out to under_my_blue_umbrella, who will say she didn't do anything, but I'll parry that: I would not have seriously written the Musketeers without her encouragement.

The grey sky was a gloomy canvas above, and the heavy clouds threatened rain, but d’Artagnan thought he had never seen a day so beautiful. He took a deep breath and filled his lungs with fresh air. The stitched gash in his side stretched and burned painfully, but that was beautiful, too. 

Athos’ arm was firmly around d’Artagnan’s waist, providing solid, upright support.

“My orders were for you to rest!” 

Aramis’ voice rang out across the courtyard as he came striding over.

D’Artagnan waited until Aramis had come closer, then argued, grinning,

“I am resting! I sat in bed for _two hours_ this morning, and normally I’d have already gone out on Theon. I couldn’t actually physically stand another minute in that room, Aramis. This is me, resting!”

Aramis was shaking his head, his eyes worried as they took in d’Artagnan’s side. The lanky youth was a tad stooped; his natural height a touch compromised as he curled slightly into Athos, protecting his weak side. He met Aramis’ warning look with a defiant lift of his chin.

“Boredom can be just as hard to swallow as pain“ said Athos, his innocent tone belied by a steely expression.

Aramis flashed Athos an exasperated look, and d’Artagnan glanced between his two brothers; a silent battle of wills. 

Aramis threw up his hands in the air before shooting d’Artagnan a wide smile. 

“I can’t blame him for letting you out; it’s good to see you up.”

He turned to Athos. 

“Make sure he doesn’t overdo it.”

D’Artagnan turned delightedly to Athos, who gave him a tiny, amused smile of solidarity as they began to slowly walk the perimeter of the courtyard.

 

XXXXX

 

_This._

Porthos letting out a shout of triumph next to him, flinging down his winning hand onto the wooden table they were seated at and leaning back, fixing Aramis with a satisfied look.

_This right here._

Aramis smiling and shaking his head, then shrugging his shoulders and raising his glass to Porthos, his eyes twinkling.

_This is what he was in search of._

Athos meeting d’Artagnan’s eyes and giving him a wry raise of the eyebrows at Aramis and Porthos’ antics.

_This feeling is why he desperately wanted to be a Musketeer._

D’Artagnan was hardly aware of the background roar of bawdy laughter and clinking glasses; the heavy footfalls of boots walking to-and-fro on the flagstone floor of the public house. He was more than slightly intoxicated. Keeping up with Athos, glass for glass, meant the world was blurring comfortably into a warm cocoon, whereas his brother’s blue gaze remained as sharp and assessing as ever. 

He would be content to be keeping up with Athos, and Porthos and Aramis, for the rest of his life, if he was that lucky.

Athos rapped his knuckles softly on the table in front of them, calling for attention in his effortlessly quiet way.

“Gentlemen.”

Aramis and Porthos turned and leaned forward, and the four heads bent towards each other as Athos spoke.

“We were successful in our mission to retrieve the letter.” He nodded to d’Artagnan before continuing.

“And despite our youngest brother sustaining an injury in a duel with Thierry, he still won-“

“Atta boy!” put in Porthos.

“-and we have returned in one piece. We would not have been able to do it without him.” 

Aramis threw his arm around d’Artagnan’s shoulders and raised his wine. 

“To another successful mission.” 

“To many more adventures!” boomed Porthos, lifting his glass.

“To d’Artagnan, our newest brother,” said Athos simply.

D’Artagnan shook his head and blinked furiously at the table. Then he looked up and glanced at each of their faces, in turn.

“I don’t know what to say.”

“For once!” grinned Aramis.

“This evening, I feel as if I am the richest man in the world. To the Musketeers!” 

The four brought their glasses together and swallowed.

Porthos sighed happily. 

“Well I’ve won enough for tonight, don’ know about you, but I think I migh’ just finish this and turn in.” 

Aramis glanced out the window; the dark and glittering Paris night was promising to turn into an early grey dawn very soon. He nodded, leaned back and stretched. 

“Yes, I think even our young one here would agree we’ve all earned a rest-“

He was cut off as a man stumbled backwards into their table, sloshing the wine and spilling the cards across its surface. The man righted himself, then turned to face them; his expression going sour as he saw the fleur-de-lis on Athos, Porthos and Aramis’ shoulders.

“Treville’s Musketeers. I was going to say sorry, but no need to apologize to your bunch, with your noses in the air-“

“Monsieur!” d’Artagnan had rocked to his feet and stepped right into the other man’s space.

“You do not want to insult me or my brothers, so if you apologize, I’ll let you go your way.” 

“I’ll do no such thing!”

D’Artagnan drew his sword in his left hand, his ready energy thrumming to the surface again. His right side was still vulnerable, but no matter, this man’s insolence couldn’t stand, how dare he-

The other man drew his own rapier, and so did two of his friends, watching.

Aramis leaned back, addressing Porthos and Athos.

“This is how it’s going to be now, isn’t it?” he indicated d’Artagnan, who was wearing a familiar indignant expression. 

Athos stood up with a resigned sigh, drawing his own blade, as Porthos and Aramis did the same.

“Ah, your big brothers helping you out, are they?” the man said, smiling disparagingly.

D’Artagnan could feel the Musketeers standing at his side, and he smiled, lifting his sword higher.

“They are.”

_This feeling._


End file.
